


One More Time

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cabins, Dogs, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Secret Past, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost in the woods in mountainous Virginia on a hike from Georgia to Maine, Dean falls victim to a hunter's bullet just as the snow begins to fall. What should've been his demise ends up as a new beginning when a stranger with haunted eyes rescues him from certain death, his mysterious past looming over his shoulders at all times. Trapped in Castiel's cabin in the Appalachian Mountains, Dean is forced to come to terms with his own mortality, and maybe admit a few secrets of his own, now that Castiel is by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Time

It hurts.

Not just a splintering, deep burrowing pain, but something sharp and bright, agonizing. The shot still rings through Dean Winchester’s ears, echoing through the forest and scattering a murder of crows overhead, several squirrels running up tree trunks to higher ground. He doesn't even know where it _came_ from—all he knows is that his leg is bleeding profusely and he can’t walk any farther, the leaf litter his bedding.

“Shit,” he groans, fisting his hair and looking to the sky, light gray visible through the dying limbs. Faintly, a snow begins to fall, further mocking his plight.

With shaking fingers, Dean reaches down to his thigh, his jeans soaked through, hand coming away bloody. It’s worse than he thought, and as far as he’s out in the middle of nowhere, help is a long way off. “Shadow,” he calls out, voice thick with fatigue and blood loss. Aimlessly, he reaches into the leaf-covered dirt—nothing. No sight of Shadow, or _anything_ , for that matter. Hell, the guy who shot him is probably halfway across the county by now, not even bothering to investigate what—or _who_ —he put a bullet into.

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean wheezes to no one, head falling back with a thunk. Above him, the canopy sways, uncaring. Beside a nearby tree, his backpack sits on its side, tossed away before Dean made to it the ground, too far for him to reach for now. “’M gonna die here,” he laughs to himself, covering his eyes with his bloodied hand against the falling snow. He sucks in a shallow breath and practically cackles, distraught and terrified.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. A simple hiking trip up to Maine, no one but his dog to keep him company along his trek. Now, he lies in a pool of his own blood, praying to whoever’s listening to save him, to do _something_ other than let him die in the wilderness. “Not gonna get eaten by some damn bear,” he grates, words slurring together. No use—he can’t even move, let alone speak. Slowly, his vision blackens around the edges, consciousness slipping the harder he fights. _I can’t_ , he mourns, lets his hand fall to the side, numb with the cold.

 _Don’t wanna die_ , he tells himself as he’s pulled under.

-+-

The next sound Dean hears is a crackling fire and the wind blowing, whipping through the pines and the firs, now muted, almost distant. Wind chimes sound nearby, tinkling away in the gust. _I’m warm_ , is his first thought, followed by, _I’m not dead_. Alive and miraculously in one piece, he considers. Opening his eyes, he stares at the roof pitched over his head, multiple beams spanning across the room to hold it up. It smells faintly of cedar inside, along with the burning pine wood in the brick fireplace about six feet adjacent to him, the only source of light inside the home aside from the windows.

His leg stings when he moves, what feels like stitches tugging when he tries to straighten it on the plaid-patterned couch. Either way, he can’t see it, a blanket covering him from his socked toes to his shoulders, keeping away most of the cold. For the first time in weeks, he’s _warm_ , the fire doing more than his sleeping bag and tent ever did. Speaking of—where are his things?

Sitting up only stirs the pain, forcing him to wince once he’s fully seated, one hand on the back of the couch, the other gripping his good knee. Over the cushions, he spots his backpack and sleeping bag resting beside a round dining table, barely big enough for two people to sit comfortably at. Above it and all along the walls rest several black and white photographs, all of distant locations Dean’s only seen in books and magazines, all expertly shot by someone’s brilliant hand. Along the same wall as the table, he finds a well-kept kitchen and a hallway, presumably leading to a bedroom or two, maybe a bathroom. If only he could stand, or _move_ for that matter.

Right now, Dean is only aware of two things—one, he’s alive and _breathing_ , and no longer dying in the cold mountains of what he presumes is Virginia. Two, someone saved him and dragged him back to a cabin in the middle of nowhere and stitched him back together. Whether he needs medical attention or not, he’s still not sure, even after pulling the blankets aside to reveal his bare and bandaged leg, a large patch of gauze taped over the gunshot wound, only mildly bloody. At some point, whoever rescued him will have to come back and change it, and then, Dean can properly thank him—or flee into the woods, either one.

For now, he lies back and listens to the wind chimes and his heart, beating a slow rhythm in his chest, such a stark difference from earlier. The fear of death no longer looms over his head, but he still feels it in the back of his mind, the encounter fraying his every nerve to the core. _I could’ve died_ , he thinks, blinking up at the ceiling. _I could be dead, ‘n I don’t even know where_...

He fists the blankets at his side, knuckles turning white the longer he ruminates on it. Where is he? Where’s Shadow, and why did she run off at the first sign of trouble? Sure, she wasn't always the smartest, but she could track like no other, something that Sam had been determined to instill in her even as a puppy. “We don’t even hunt,” Dean had complained as Sam threw a cooler into the back of their father’s early model Impala one morning, Shadow sitting shotgun with her head hanging out of the passenger window.

“She’ll know how to get us home,” Sam had joked from behind the wheel. “Besides, you’ll be grateful when we go on our trip.”

Right, the trip—the trip Dean is currently on without his brother, and apparently now without his dog. Wherever she is, he hopes she’ll return soon, or at least sniff out his blood trail and come running. With the way the snow’s coming down, though, he doesn’t think she has a chance. “Shoulda never taken you out here,” he mourns, chest deflating with his exhale. It’s his fault, all of it—and Sam will never let him hear the end of it, especially if Dean finds Shadow’s frozen body in a snowbank, whenever he physically can leave the cabin.

Guilt immediately consumes him, long enough for his blood pressure to rise and his heart rate to stutter, tears prickling behind his eyes. _I’m not old enough for this_ , he considers and covers his eyes, his hand still reeking of copper and decaying underbrush, nails probably caked with blood. Older people get shot in the woods, or kids with no common sense walking in the line of sight of someone in a deer stand. But as far as he knows, no one had been even remotely near him at the time. Maybe it was a stray bullet, maybe unfortunate circumstance.

Either way, Dean’s stuck in a cabin with no pants and a hole in his leg with no bearings on just where on the eastern seaboard he is—and his damn _dog_ is missing, probably dead for all he knows.

It takes him another ten minutes to calm himself, throat tight when he can finally see through the tears, a good majority soaking into his hairline. A month’s worth of frustration and anger and fear break free when he can’t choke them back any longer, still flowing when he can breathe correctly, throat still constricted. He should’ve never gone on this trip, he considers in retrospect; he should’ve just stayed home in Kansas with mom and dad and put up with his father’s overbearing attitude for another year, at least until he made enough to get out of there and go somewhere far away.

But no, he had to finish the _hike_ , if anything just to spite Sam for getting into Stanford and leaving him in the aftermath. They should make a t-shirt, ‘Hiked the Appalachian Trail and All I Got was This Bullet Wound.’ Hilarious, really.

Another gust rattles the wind chimes on the porch, a loud resounding bark echoing through the screened front door. Pain temporarily forgotten, Dean sits up and hisses, grabbing his leg in sympathy; it only abates the sting for a moment, long enough for him to spot a man walking onto the porch and a white-tipped tail following after, paws thumping on the hardwood. _Shadow_ —Shadow’s alive, and apparently with a complete stranger.

Light snow rushes inside as said stranger enters the cabin, a large tan coat pulled over his shoulders and black gloves covering his hands. Any other time, and Dean would have thought him attractive, late thirties with shadowed cobalt eyes and a stubbled jaw, hair beginning to gray behind his ears when he pulls his beanie off his head. His cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, decorating cheekbones Dean has only ever seen in magazine spreads.

For a split second, the stranger is forgotten when Shadow bounds inside with her tail in the air, her brown paws adorned with bright pink booties. Snow covers her back, melting into the black ticks throughout her coat and the black of her head. No injuries, no blood anywhere—she’s _here_. And she leaps directly into Dean’s lap and starts licking his tearstained face, uncaring that she’s standing on his leg. “Gonna kill me,” Dean wheezes, and reaches up to pet her ears.

“I actually think she saved you,” the stranger mentions on the other side of the room, hanging his coat on the rack by the now-closed door. He’s wearing red flannel underneath, checkered with green and gray, and a pair of well-worn jeans, the frayed hems covering industrial boots. Whoever he is, he’s been out here long enough to look like several stereotypes of the residents he’s only seen on television. Gloves pulled off and set on the table, he turns to Dean and waves his hand to Shadow, who then leaps off the couch to go sit by the fire. _Weird_. “She ran about two miles from where I found you and wouldn’t leave until I followed her. She must really love you.”

“Guess so,” Dean sighs, lets his head drop. Belatedly, he remembers how bloodshot his eyes must look and wipes them, to no avail. If the stranger notices, he doesn’t say a word, just leaves for the kitchen and comes back with a first aid kit. Dean can barely look him in the face when he sits at Dean’s bent knee, setting the box aside. “You take my pants off?”

The stranger snorts, a quiet smile splitting his lips. “It was the only way I could get to the wound. Whoever was aiming at you managed to miss everything vital, but you would’ve bled out regardless.”

“That’s reassuring,” Dean grunts. “Can I get your name first before you get a peek again?”

This time, he laughs; Dean follows along, rubbing the back of his neck in a failed attempt to hide his blush. “Castiel,” the man says, offering a hand. Dean takes it, Castiel’s skin cold from the weather. “I saved your life.”

Dean nods, swallows. “Thanks for that,” he mutters. “…Really.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Castiel shrugs.

Gently, Castiel pulls the blanket away from Dean’s thigh to expose the bandage, now bloodied even further, probably from Shadow standing on him. It looks even worse once Castiel cuts the gauze wrap free and peels off the bandage, the stitches miraculously still in place, just bloody around the edges. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to look for long; Castiel blots away the fresh blood and wipes it clean with an antiseptic wipe, along with the entry hole on the underside, decidedly in better shape. “Least they got a clean shot,” Dean quips.

Castiel huffs and tosses the bloodied wipe atop the equally dirty washrag, returning with a new bandage. “Did you see who shot you?” Castiel asks and looks up, the faint light from the dying fire reflected in his eyes.

Dean just barely suppresses a shiver. “Didn’t see anyone,” Dean answers, low. “Didn’t… I checked the area, man. Ain’t seen a person out here for miles, and then I just go down. Didn’t even hear it at first ‘til I figured out I couldn’t walk. ’N then Shadow took off,”—Dean gestures to Shadow, now currently sleeping on the rug—“and then I woke up here.”

“I only ask because this land is protected,” Castiel says, pulling the backing off the bandage and setting it over the top of Dean’s thigh. “No one is supposed to hunt within two miles of my home. It’s considered private land.”

“If I saw someone, I’d tell you,” Dean assures. “Trust me, I wouldn’t… I wanna know who it is as much as you do, but… Don’t think they’re around here anymore.”

“They probably left as soon as they saw you,” Castiel offers.

After replacing the second bandage, Castiel wraps Dean’s thigh with gauze and tapes the end, securing it tight. Dean sighs once it’s settled and leans back, letting his head rest on the pillow. Castiel sits at his side, now staring into the fire, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced in the light. Against his will, Dean aches to reach out and touch, something he’s never been allowed to do, especially back home. But here…

 _No_ , he scolds himself. _Hands to yourself_.

“You live out here by yourself?” Dean asks instead, occupying himself with words rather than sitting in silence. It’s all he can do to keep his mind on track and away from the gutter he’s inevitably bound to fall into.

Castiel nods, letting out a breath through his nose. “For a few years now. My family’s owned the land for decades, and I recently came into it after…” He stops, eyes pinching shut. Whatever he meant to say is lost in another gust, the snow falling heavier now, rattling the chimes. “It doesn’t matter,” Castiel finishes, solemn. “Are you hungry?”

 _Food_. When was the last time he ate, anyway? Probably yesterday when he made camp for the night; he had only been walking two hours today before someone decided to fill his thigh full of lead. “Think I need a shower first,” he says instead, aimlessly scratching at the beard he knows he’s growing. He hasn’t seen himself in a mirror in a month. “Startin’ to smell ripe.”

“I’ll probably have to double wash my blankets,” Castiel says, humorous; Dean can’t help but grin along. “Can you walk on your own?”

Dean tries—or, rather, fails, ending up falling backwards the minute he attempts to put weight on his left leg. “That’s not happening,” he grunts, fisting the gauze and praying it’ll stop the ache. The last thing he needs is to rip the stitches.

“I can help,” Castiel suggests, vigilant. Somehow, Dean can tell he’s serious, like he’d legitimately back down if Dean wants to grovel to the bathroom on his own.

“You…” Dean glances to the floor, hoping the fire will mute the red flush rushing up his neck. “You don’t gotta do that, man. I can go—”

“It’s no trouble, really.” Castiel offers a hand, fingers calloused with wear; from woodworking or a prior occupation, Dean doesn’t know. Any other day, any other injury, and his pride would’ve taken center stage and prevented him from accepting anything, genuine or otherwise. But he’s not home here—he’s in the middle of nowhere in a cabin in the woods, with possibly the most handsome stranger he’s ever happened to meet, and incidentally been dragged through the woods by.

 _Pride be damned_ , Dean thinks, and takes Castiel’s hand, lets Castiel drag him to his feet and hook Dean’s arm over his shoulder. “Hope you know how to waterproof this thing,” Dean groans once they’re on the move, vaguely gesturing to his thigh.

Even without looking up, Dean can tell Castiel is smiling. “I’ll find something to keep it dry,” he assures, and they walk.

-+-

It takes another four days before Dean can stand on his own without wanting to collapse onto the floor or whine—both of which Castiel finds amusing, much to Dean’s dismay. By that time, the storm has settled in, dumping at least a foot of snow a day outside, now just as high as the porch railing with only a small path cut into the drifts from where Shadow’s tore through it. Cabin fever hasn't set in yet, not entirely; being off his feet has very little perks, Dean finds, especially with Castiel’s significant lack of Wi-Fi and anything to keep his attention longer than five minutes.

But Castiel has a television, which is where Dean sits most of the time, watching the analog box from the couch play whatever of the twelve stations Castiel has via rabbit ears. “They don't offer cable this far into the mountains,” Castiel said over dinner one night, unashamed of his living conditions. “And even if I did, the storm would’ve knocked it out. This is easier, even if it does lose reception.”

It mostly plays the local news and basic cable programming, and that one channel that airs a loop of what sounds like elevator music. Right now, Drew Carey is telling someone they’ve won a new speedboat while Castiel flips through Coalfield Progress, disinterested. “What d’you do out here?” Dean asks offhand, absently scratching at his jaw. Now that he has time, he can actually pay attention to how much it itches, the thickest he’s ever let it grow. _Really shoulda packed a razor_ , he chastises himself and glances to the window past Castiel’s head, snow blowing in thick sheets outside.

“When the weather’s nice, I normally walk the trails,” Castiel shrugs, pushing his reading glasses further up his nose. “I also make statues to sell in the town market once a month. I’ve gotten quite proficient with a chainsaw.”

Dean chuckles to himself and glances down to his lap, absently scratching his thigh over the blanket covering his legs. It’s healed now, at least as much as it can with Castiel’s stitch work and apparent stash of antibiotics. Dean can walk now, albeit with a limp, but walk nonetheless. The cold doesn’t do him any favors though, seeping through the unsealed cracks in the cabin walls and permeating the very air he breathes, even more as the snow comes down, thick and daunting.

_I’m never gonna be able to leave._

“Y’should show ‘em to me sometime,” Dean yawns.

Stretching his arms above his head, he butts his ankles against Castiel’s thigh, mostly an accident. Castiel doesn’t shy away though, merely settles with placing his palm over Dean’s vulnerable ankle, thumb rubbing concise, repetitive circles in a pattern Dean loses himself in. Not once does he care how he looks like that, clad in Castiel’s pajamas, the set too big for him and hanging off his frame. But they’re comfortable, soft and well worn, smelling faintly of the cabin and Castiel, both lulling him secure in the backwoods of Virginia.

Virginia—he still can’t believe he walked that far and survived. Well, minus the gunshot wound. A limp and a new scar are nothing compare to the fact that he’s breathing and not dead and buried up to his neck in snow. “Feel like I should still thank you,” Dean mumbles, settling into the couch cushions. Without prompting, Castiel brings Dean’s socked feet into his lap; Dean flushes, swallowing down the sudden rush of… _everything_ coursing through him. Affection, warmth, touch; despite himself, he wants more.

“You don’t have to,” Castiel says, softer now, almost concerned. Folding his newspaper, Castiel sets it atop the small table beside the couch, directly beside the lamp that’s trying its hardest to keep the room lit in the midst of the storm. The power might not last into the evening; all of him hopes Castiel has a plan if so. “I admit it’s… unconventional to bring you here rather than a hospital, but I don’t think you would’ve survived if I drove you into town.” He stops to pat Dean’s ankle again, warm and heavy over his socks. “ I just did what I thought was right.”

Dean nods, hesitant. He watches the fire smolder for a long few seconds before he speaks up, hating how his voice cracks. “Just… No one’s ever done somethin’ like that for me before, y’know? Least, not that extreme, but… Kinda wasn’t expectin’ anyone to find me.” He stops, lets his eyes slip closed. “Did I tell you why I came up here?”

“You didn’t,” Castiel supplies, and Dean swears he can hear Castiel smile, however small it may be. “You don’t have any weapons, so I assume you’re not hunting.”

“Nah,” Dean shrugs, settles himself deeper into the couch. “Dad’s all about elk and big game. Kept tryin’ to shove his rifles in my truck ‘cause he wanted me to bring a buck all the way back to Kansas.”

Across the couch, Castiel snorts. “I can’t imagine highway patrol allowing you to get very far.”

“I don’t think so either,” Dean laughs. “…My brother, Sam, we’ve been plannin’ this hike for a few months. Said once he graduated high school, we’d hike from Georgia to Maine. He wanted to make a blog about it, the dork.” The fire burns bright through closed eyelids, and faintly, he feels Castiel petting over the curve of his ankle, something solid Dean can root himself to. “Kid got Valedictorian, and some college out west wanted him out there as soon as he could get on a plane.

“And I could tell he didn’t wanna. Just… He’s got these eyes, man. Puts a damn beagle to shame, he can pretty much talk you into anything. But I told him it wasn’t gonna work.” Glancing up to the ceiling, Dean places his hands on his stomach, letting them rise and fall with his breaths. “Told him, it’s just a hike. We can do it whenever he gets back, but… He’s just doin’ so well, and I’m so damn proud of him. Didn’t wanna take him away from that.”

“So you went by yourself,” Castiel finishes; Dean nods, uneasy. “It’s a big commitment. Most of the people who attempt the hike normally quit around North Carolina.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean huffs, yet still manages a smile. “Thought I was gonna die the minute I got into Tennessee.”

“You made it this far, though,” Castiel says. That’s true enough. As far as personal achievements go, never once did he think he’d actually make it to Virginia, let alone out of Georgia. “Once you’re able, are you planning to keep hiking?”

That’s the question Dean’s been mulling over for the past three nights, tucked into bed in one of Castiel’s spare bedrooms. If given the chance, would he give up and leave for Kansas, or continue on his journey up to Maine? Why is he even up there anyway, other than to finish what he and Sam originally started? Now with a hole in his leg and a snowstorm bearing down overhead, his will to continue on is dwindling fast.

And the longer he stays near Castiel, so do his defenses.

“I’m still thinking about it,” Dean sighs; absently, he scratches his beard, the movement attracting Castiel’s attention. “…Somethin’ bothering you?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to shave,” Castiel suggests, glances back to the bathroom at the end of the hall. “You look uncomfortable.”

 _Understatement_ , Dean muses. Tauntingly, he strokes his beard with a quizzical expression, earning an eye roll from Castiel. “Kinda afraid of what I look like. Haven’t exactly found your mirror yet.”

“I assure you,” Castiel says, mirthful, “you look perfectly fine.”

Slowly, Dean makes his way from the couch to the hallway with Castiel at his back, wincing whenever his feet hit the hardwood the wrong way. Maybe in a few days, the stitches won’t pull so much; Castiel even said they could come out tomorrow, depending on how well the surface has healed. He can’t wait.

Castiel’s bathroom is quaint, brightly lit and decorated with paintings of boats and a plaque telling the story of the sand dollar. A bathtub sits in the corner, along with a toilet and sink resting adjacent, no mirror in sight. Castiel’s search under the sink results in a black leather bag and a few bottles with indistinct lettering, some of the letters rubbed off with wear. Dean sits on the toilet lid without instruction and watches Castiel unzip the case, pulling from it a straight razor and a bottle of foaming cream.

Dean eyes the blade, wary; he’s never done this before, at least not with a straight razor, mostly out of fear of accidentally slitting his own throat. Castiel must sense his worry, because he reaches down to tilt Dean’s chin up with gentle fingers, almost coaxing. “I don’t have anything else, but I’d rather you not bleed out on my floor if something were to happen.”

“I—I getcha,” Dean stammers.

Inevitably, he feels his cheeks flush with Castiel’s continued scrutiny, even more when Castiel instructs him to wash his face beforehand, something about freeing the oils from his skin. Dean goes along with it and towels his face dry with the washcloth, afterwards reseating himself. For a while, all he knows is Castiel’s hand when Castiel lathers his jaw with whatever sweet smelling cream he owns, letting it sit long enough to soak into Dean’s skin.

“I need you to hold still,” Castiel says, going for the razor; all Dean can do is nod and watch, his pulse fluttering rapidly under Castiel’s fingers when Castiel tilts his face just to where he wants it. There’s trust in Castiel’s eyes, Dean finds, some absolute surety that Castiel won’t hurt him, would never even dream of it.

Still, it does little to calm him when Castiel drags the blade through the lather a small fraction; it comes away clean, free of blood yet full of hair, coarse and thick and everything Dean has feared. “How bad do I look?” he asks, serious; Castiel only laughs at him, his teeth showing, eyes wrinkling at the edges.

It’s a good look on him, really. “I’m not sure how old you are, actually,” Castiel muses, drawing the razor across his jaw again. “It makes you look older.”

“‘M only twenty-two,” Dean chirps when Castiel lets go of his face to clean the blade under the faucet. “How old did you think I was?”

Castiel blinks at him momentarily, lips pursed in thought. What, had Castiel thought differently? Had he not expected it? “I’m—not sure,” he freezes, oddly interested in rinsing his already clean razor. “…I’m twice your age, Dean.”

Dean swallows, ignoring the way his hand shakes when Castiel comes at him again, this time more cautious, like Dean is somehow more fragile. “You were fine with me before I told you,” Dean murmurs, temporarily faulting Castiel’s concentration. Castiel tilts his chin higher, moving to the line of his jaw. “For what it’s worth, I don’t care you’re old.”

“You should stop talking,” Castiel chides; still, there’s humor in his tone, a smile barely ticking his lips. “I graduated high school while you were in diapers.”

“How were the ‘90s?” Dean asks, earning a bemused smirk. “C’mon. Y’gotta have at least one story. What were you doin’ while I was trying to crawl?”

All at once, Dean watches Castiel’s face fall. Such a slight change, but it’s there nonetheless, shadows hanging over Castiel’s eyes even in the dim light. The tension taints the space between them, and Dean finds quiet solace in Castiel’s touch in the silence, the occasional scrape of the razor grounding him. Whatever happened to Castiel, Dean’s not sure he wants to know, or find out. “No one likes secrets, Cas,” Dean mentions before the sentence actually begins to process.

He has half a second to be embarrassed before Castiel smiles, flitting away just as fast as it appears. “One day,” he says, and Dean holds onto that promise.

Castiel finishes with the last swipe of the blade under Dean’s ear, the absence of his touch unbearable after the fact. Shame burns bright in his gut with the admission of how much he wants it, craves Castiel’s hands on him, even when Castiel returns to wipe the excess cream off his face, leaving him bare skinned for the first time in weeks. Reaching for a red-labeled bottle on the lip of the sink, Castiel tells him, “Use this,” before handing it over. It’s a generic moisturizer, probably from a local grocery, but it’ll work regardless.

Dean thanks him with a nod, of which Castiel returns and busies himself with drying and repacking his kit. As far as he can tell, Castiel didn’t even nick him, not even a trace of pain when he smoothes the gel—lavender—over his skin, afterwards washing his hands under the faucet. “How’d you learn—,” Dean starts to ask, but Castiel is gone, footsteps creaking down the hallway, out of sight by the time Dean peeks around the corner.

Unwelcome quiet assumes Castiel’s space, consuming; in his wake, Dean is left to wonder on his own, guilt and something else burning bright in his veins, something that feels like hope.

-+-

The weather reports aren’t showing any signs of letting up two days later, the brief lull in the storm soon to be replaced by an even harder system moving through, set to bury the better half of the state in another few feet of snow. In the interval, Castiel herds Dean into the front seat of his pickup with Shadow on the back bench, an old Ford that shouldn’t be allowed on the highway. But it runs, after they successfully dig out a path from around the carport, and they make their way to the city of Big Stone Gap.

The roads are clear by the time they make it to the two-lane leading into town, snowbanks pushed off to the side, a few inches taller than the tire well on the truck. The risk of black ice is still there, though, and thankfully Castiel avoids the worst of it on their thirty minute trek into town, pointed in the direction of the Food City.

Not exactly the first grocery chain Dean would’ve expected, but it has enough to last them for another week, at least until the weather blows over.

Dean dons one of Castiel’s coats—a tan raincoat with a few loose threads in the interior pockets—when he hops from the passenger seat and helps Shadow to the asphalt with her leash in hand, Castiel manually locking both doors with his key. “Just the essentials,” Castiel says once they’re inside, already headed for the bread aisle to pick through what’s still there. “I don’t want to be here longer than we need to be.” They come away with a gallon of milk and three loaves of bread—the last on the shelf—before darting across the store.

Castiel walks with fluid steps; Dean watches him while pushing the shopping cart, Shadow’s nails clacking on the tiled floor and her tail pointed high. Castiel’s every move is calculated, repetitive, like he’s done this thousands of times before. For mid-afternoon, the store is relatively empty, regular patrons scattered through the aisles snatching whatever they can. Dean manages a box of Cheerios and a two-liter of Dr. Pepper while Castiel peruses the packaged meats; both definitely don’t belong in Castiel’s pantry—Castiel lives on pasta and salad and whatever produce he managed to freeze before the winter destroyed his crops in the backyard—but Dean will take what he can get.

Neither of them comment on the items when Castiel returns with three containers of ground chuck, the trio placed next to Dean’s additions without a word. Dean hoists a crate of water into the undercarriage of the cart, earning a raised eyebrow from Castiel. Dean rolls his eyes and shoves Castiel’s shoulder, playful with the slightest edge of the tease. In return, Castiel ruffles his hair in the frozen foods section, lingering too long at the back of Dean’s neck before jerking his hand away.

It’s awkward, but Dean wants it all the same.

The woman at the register, a brunette with a soft expression and sky blue eyes, speaks to Castiel with an equally gentle voice, imploring him about his week since she saw him last, how the storm is treating him, and who Dean is. “Dean’s hiking through to Maine,” Castiel answers before Dean can even open his mouth. It’s the truth, but not the reason why he’s there. “He’s staying with me until the storm blows over.”

“You’re a sweet man, Castiel,” the woman—Hannah, her name tag reads—says, smiling just as she finishes ringing up their purchases. Castiel fishes out enough cash from his wallet, consisting mostly of tens and fives, and one or two twenties. The store doesn’t even have a credit card reader, or at least that register doesn’t. As far as Dean can tell, Hannah is the only cashier working, along with the man bagging their supplies with more theatrics than necessary. It’s a good show, at least.

“Tell Anna to keep warm,” Castiel says once the bag boy is done performing to an audience of two, their bags secure in the cart. “I don’t think we’ll be digging out any time soon.”

“The news stations are saying there’s a chance for ice,” Hannah mentions, handing Castiel a lengthy receipt. “Are you in town for the day?”

Castiel shakes his head, gloved hands shoved in his jacket pockets along with the paper. His eyes darken, distant. “Just for this.”

“You should come by more often,” Hannah says; Castiel shudders with the suggestion, unnoticeable if Dean weren’t standing so close. “We haven’t seen you at the diner in a while.”

Dean watches Castiel nod with reluctance, downcast. “When the weather lets up,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “I promise.”

“You best keep it,” Hannah warns, and waves them goodbye.

Castiel is out the front door before Dean can manage to catch up, practically running in his footsteps. Three wheels grate against the asphalt, the wobble of the fourth throwing the rhythm off. “Is something wrong?” Dean asks halfway to the truck. Castiel doesn’t answer. “Cas—”

“I don’t… I’ve never been good in social situations,” Castiel says in haste. He slows the closer they walk to the old Ford, now less predictable in his movements, almost jittery. He stops to open the passenger door and pushes Dean’s seat forward, far enough for him to load the grocery bags into the back bench, milk jug placed in the floorboard behind the seat. Castiel doesn’t continue until Dean pushes the shopping cart to the return two parking spots away and seats himself back in his up-righted seat with Shadow sitting on the bench between them, Castiel’s voice fraught with worry. “…I’ve lived here for twenty years, and I’m still not used to it.”

Dean looks to him in wary fascination, wringing his hands in his lap. Something happened—something that Castiel is slowly venturing nearer by the day. Whatever he’s hiding, he can’t hold it back for much longer. “You can tell me,” Dean offers, fighting to keep his tone neutral. He wants to know, but only as long as Castiel is willing to tell of his own will, not through coercion or force. “I’m not gonna judge you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Think we’ve all done some fucked up things in our lives.”

Castiel pauses for a long second, finally inhaling and exhaling a drawn out sigh. The engine turns over with some coaxing, just as the first snow is beginning to dot the windshield. Light now, but based on the last few days, it won’t be long. “I feel bad for keeping you in suspense,” Castiel attempts to josh, coming off flat.

Dean grins anyway, just to lighten the tension. “I’m not goin’ anywhere if you aren’t.”

A smile; even then, Dean can tell it’s hollow, loathsome, at himself more than anything. “You understand, why I can’t…”

Nodding, Dean reaches over to pat Castiel’s leg, flailing a bit before he lands where he means. “Told you, you’re stuck with me.”

This time, Castiel laughs. “I guess you are.”

-+-

The electricity lasts for another two hours after they return home, long enough for Dean to catch the last of the mid-afternoon weather report and Castiel to finish preparing soup for dinner. The lights flicker at first, flashing for five seconds before the television shuts off and the lamps go dark, bathing the living area with the light reflecting off the snow outside. Faintly, Dean listens to the rasp of a lighter when Castiel relights the gas burner, afterwards setting it on the bar separating the kitchen from the main room.

“Guess we’re in this for the long haul,” Dean says, lighthearted, with his head hanging over the side of the couch arm; Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches down to pat Dean’s chin. They’re touching more recently, Dean’s noticed; whether it’s bumping in the hall or on the couch or platonic yet still lingering hands on wrists or shoulders, they’re always there, Castiel’s warmth bleeding into Dean’s skin at all hours, even when they’re separated by log walls in the evenings.

Never once does Shadow bark at Castiel, either. Ever since they first arrived, she’s followed Castiel from room to room, stopping at his feet wherever he goes. Dean has never seen her like this, even around Sam. Maybe it’s a testament to how much Castiel can be trusted, or maybe she knows he has food—either way, it’s the quietest Dean has ever heard her, aside from growling at midnight when the wind blows or the floors creak outside his bedroom door, Castiel wandering the halls late at night until he settles.

It would be unnerving if Dean hadn’t grown used to it in just the short span of a week. There’s something frightening there, but Castiel is cracking the longer Dean shares the same space. If Dean wanted, he could leave now, trek through the snow and risk getting frostbite, or ask Castiel to drive him into town so he can catch the next bus back to Georgia.  

But he doesn’t— _can’t_ —not until the weather clears and he knows more, just to satisfy the ache in his soul.

“I need you to help me with something,” Castiel says, breaking Dean from his musings. With a nod, Dean follows Castiel into Dean’s room with Shadow at his back, her tail wagging back and forth with every step. Through the thin blinds, Dean can see the snow pouring down, piling on the windowsill outside. In the meantime, Castiel pulls a pile of blankets from the closet and proceeds to strip the bed, all while Dean watches on in confusion. “I have enough wood to keep the fire going, but without the heat, the rest of the house won’t be habitable.”

“So you wanna make a blanket fort in front of the fire?” Dean guesses, amused. “Gotta say, didn’t think you’d be into that.”

On the other side of the bed, Castiel shoots him a despairing glare before saying, “Help me move the mattress?”

Dean snorts, adding, “Since you asked so nicely,” with a smirk.

Together, they pile the mass of blankets and pillows from Dean’s spare bedroom and drag the full-sized mattress from the room, just barely making it through the hall without getting it stuck. Shadow, in her excitement, bounces backwards in mock attack while they move, until they push the couch back far enough to set the bedding a few feet from the fire. Immediately after, she jumps into the pile and worms her way between a portion of the blankets, much to Dean and Castiel’s shared amusement.

“Think we made her a dog bed,” Dean says, running a hand down his face over the faint prickles of stubble beginning to fill in again. Castiel chuckles and rubs between his shoulders before moving to untangle the mess Shadow has made, attempting to arrange it into something more manageable.

It’s not until then that Dean realizes just what this is. Castiel isn’t asking him to sleep in the living room while Castiel locks himself in his bedroom—he wants them to share a bed, surrounded by blankets and pillows in front of a roaring fire. Cliché as hell, but Dean’s heard of worse. _Done_ worse in the name of feeling someone pressed close to him, tangled and caught in each other until the morning light comes and brings the inevitable shame.

If only his family could see him now.

“I…” Dean starts, throat dry when he swallows. He licks over his lips when Castiel sits back in his proverbial nest, Shadow curled in close at his side with her head resting on his thigh. Castiel looks relaxed there, dressed in an old shirt from a concert Dean wasn’t even alive to attend and pajama pants, wiggling his socked toes in a distracting wave. “…You don’t think this is weird, the whole…”

“I figured this is easier than having to freeze in the bedrooms,” Castiel shrugs, rubbing between Shadow’s ears. “…Unless you don’t want to.” Dawning crosses Castiel’s face, and guilt quickly consumes Dean, knowing that he’s the one that caused it. “I should’ve asked—”

“It’s fine,” Dean says in a rush; he drops to his knees at Castiel’s feet, both Castiel’s and Shadow’s eyes on him. His hands shake in his lap, unsure of where exactly to put them. “It’s fine, it’s… I’ve never… Not in the same bed—”

“You’ve never been in bed with another man,” Castiel says, serious.

Fire burns up Dean’s neck, painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears crimson, just from Castiel’s suggestion. “Kinda—Both, I guess,” he stutters, head bowed and eyes turned to the blankets. Sure, he’s fantasized about it in the past, what it would feel like to have another man pressed close and enveloping him completely, but he never acted on it, too afraid of his family’s reaction. Small town Kansas boy caught in bed with a man? He’d never hear the end of it, if he lived that long.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t mean it.” Continuing to pet between Shadow’s ears, Castiel looks to him with haunted eyes, shadows dancing on his face from the fire burning bright at Dean’s back. Sweat begins to bead at the nape of Dean’s neck the longer he sits there, the fire pleasant in the ever increasing cold. Somehow, Castiel’s gaze heats him further, from implication and suggestion. Castiel wants to share a bed with him—Castiel wants _him_. “My offer stands, if you’re willing,” he starts again, noncommittal, eyes turned to the fireplace.

 _I could tell him no_ , Dean considers, hands pressed to the blankets on either side of his hips. If he wanted, he could tell Castiel to sleep in his bedroom, despite the risk of frostbite or dying in his own bed. And Castiel would do it, Dean bets; he’d leave Dean after the sun went down and shut himself in the farthest bedroom, purely so he didn’t inconvenience Dean with his proximity.

He has a choice, a decision. After a pregnant minute, Dean finally murmurs, “Just… don’t try anything weird, alright? ‘M just…”

“I won’t take advantage of you,” Castiel amends. “I promise, I would never.”

Dean nods, still sheepish despite the confirmation. He rubs the back of his neck, his hand coming away tacky with sweat, both from the heat and proximity to Castiel. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Dean admits. Absently, he scratches his scar through his pant leg, running his fingers over the sensitive knot there. He shouldn’t tell—but here, no one will judge him. Castiel hasn’t from the moment Dean stepped foot in the cabin, probably wouldn’t no matter what Dean told him.

With just a week between them, Dean trusts Castiel with his life.

“My parents—My dad, actually… I’ve never really told him I like guys. Never really… experimented with it either. Figured with the way he’s over my shoulder, he’d find out somehow, so I never…”

He melts when Castiel touches his shoulder, his thumb dipping into the soft curve of his collarbone. “You shouldn’t have to be ashamed,” Castiel says, just as gentle as his fingers. “And if he ever says anything against you, he’s wrong. You shouldn’t…” He stops, letting his hand slip from Dean’s shoulder to his knee, kneading him through his pajamas. “I never got the chance to tell my father. I wasn’t… I left before then. I doubt he would’ve cared, but still, I regret it to this day.”

Dean gets it, really; but Castiel’s father is different. John would care—John would berate him, set him up on dates with women well out of his league, go to every length to reaffirm Dean as his perfect heterosexual son. If only that were the truth; it would be so much easier to admit to himself that he solely liked women, if Castiel hadn’t walked into his life and treated him just like Dean had always fantasized—with affection, adoration, touched him with gentle hands and an even kinder smile.

Never in his life has he done anything to deserve Castiel.

“I just… don’t think I can,” Dean breathes, and all at once, he falls into Castiel’s embrace, the suddenness of it startling Shadow into finding another spot on the bed where no one will potentially knock her over. Dean doesn’t fight it, simply lets Castiel hold him close and eventually wraps his arms around Castiel’s back, his warmth even hotter than the fireplace.

 _It’s nice here_ , Dean thinks, wrapped in Castiel’s arms and curled in close to his scent, woodsy with the faint hint of sweat. Any other time, and he could get lost in it, let Castiel hold him for the remainder of the evening and into the early morning hours, safer than he’s felt in the last few years of his life.

Here, Dean feels at home.

“You know,” Dean starts, swallowing thick in the scant space between them, his chin resting on Castiel’s shoulder, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Faintly, he feels Castiel nod. “Tonight,” he promises, defeated. “Tonight, I’ll…”

Whatever Castiel meant to say is drowned out when Dean kisses his shoulder, just barely. Still, it’s enough for Castiel to return the gesture, lips pressed to his hair. “Stay,” Castiel whispers, a secret.

Dean answers with a sigh. “Okay.”

-+-

The fire burns down around one in the morning, the last of the logs smoldering in the bottom of the fireplace. At some point, Dean wakes to Castiel working his way out of their tangled cocoon to grab logs from the wire rack beside the television, bare save for a pair of boxers. Dean watches him rekindle the flames with sleep blurred eyes, warmth once again greeting him when it’s lit, roaring bright.

The wood pops and splinters afterwards, the only noise in the cabin aside from Castiel sliding back under the sheets and Shadow snoring from her blanket mound on the couch. At least she’s warm there; the same can’t be said for Dean’s back, freezing until Castiel tucks up close again, arms pulled tight around Dean’s waist and nose pressed into his neck. It’s intimate in a way Dean never thought possible, like Castiel is consuming him, their legs dovetailing under the mass of blankets, Dean’s hands gripping Castiel’s. He can’t find himself to hate it either, especially when Castiel starts mouthing small yet scorching kisses to Dean’s nape, one after another, unceasing.

“Got somethin’ on your mind?” Dean asks through a yawn; reaching to cup the back of Castiel’s head, he feels Castiel smile, lips still pulled into a grin when he moves to suckle just beneath Dean’s ear.

Dean positively moans, belatedly biting his fist to keep himself quiet. “I had a dream,” Castiel says, amused, before he licks at the light bruise that Dean knows he’ll have in the morning. If anything, Dean burns hotter, stomach trembling when Castiel snakes his hand low on his bare stomach, resting just above his briefs. Just a few more inches lower… “Though, it was considerably tamer than this.”

“I can tell,” Dean snorts. Angling his hips back, Dean pulls an equally startled moan from Castiel, Castiel’s half-erection pressed into the crease of Dean’s ass. Castiel doesn’t chastise him, though, just pulls Dean closer to rub himself fully there, skin sliding through sweat-soaked cotton. Maybe it’s because he’s alone, or maybe it’s because it’s Castiel that he feels so secure here, wrapped in Castiel’s embrace with nothing but the dead of night surrounding them.

Maybe that’s what also helps him to let go, tilt his head enough to capture Castiel’s lips in a quick kiss, somewhat off center. His hands tremble when Castiel kisses him back, intent dripping off his tongue when he works to press Dean onto his back, strong legs bracketing Dean’s hips. In the flickering orange light, he watches Castiel move between each kiss, fire dancing off tanned skin and dotting the litany of scars strewn across his chest, this first time Dean has really seen them, aside from the glimpse earlier when Castiel undressed himself and promptly climbed under the covers.

Now, Dean takes them in, runs his fingers over the raised edges while Castiel alternates between his neck and his lips, all of it incendiary, intent to ruin him from the inside out. Slowly, their hips roll beneath the sheets, just hard enough to draw choked whimpers from his throat, his fingers flexing, pressing hard between Castiel’s shoulder blades where he holds on tight. “Cas,” Dean pants, steals another kiss before he pushes at Castiel’s shoulder, a warning. At once, Castiel stops; Dean takes in the red flush painting Castiel’s cheeks, spreading down his neck to his chest, the soft swell of his pale lips, slick from kisses. It’s enticing, intoxicating—he wants _more_.

“You’re worried about something.” Whisper quiet, Castiel reaches up to palm Dean’s cheek, thumb stroking just beneath his eye. Dean falls into it, breathless and shamed. “What is it?”

“‘M just…” Dean starts, snaps his mouth shut. Teasing, Castiel kisses the corner of his lips. “…How far did you wanna go?”

Castiel pauses, blinks. “I didn’t—I wasn’t planning to do anything you didn’t want, especially since you haven’t—”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean draws out, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Remind me I haven’t gotten fucked before, why don’t you.”

“Maybe later,” Castiel chuckles. Dean moves willingly when Castiel pulls his hand away, afterwards kissing his palm with closed eyes. Something in Dean’s heart blooms the longer Castiel kisses over the fragile skin, taking the tip of each finger into his mouth, lust and admiration in every touch. “I’ll walk you through it, if you want.”

He shouldn’t, but Dean nods anyway, gasps when Castiel sucks two fingers into his mouth and lets his tongue part them, wet and hot—Dean nearly comes in his briefs. “Want you to…” Dean gasps, arching his hips up to meet Castiel’s, their erections sliding hot through scant layers of fabric. He wants this, more than he’s willing to admit to anyone. And Castiel only eggs him on, continues sucking each finger one at a time, never once letting his eyes break from Dean’s. “Cas…”

“I know what you want,” Castiel taunts with a smug grin.

Dean barely has the chance to roll his eyes before Castiel lets Dean’s hand drop and slides down the length of Dean’s body, kissing wet trails down his chest, to his navel, mouthing at the coarse hair darting out from underneath his waistband. Almost on instinct, Dean lifts his hips when Castiel makes a move to remove the gray fabric, already soaked through with precome. His cock smacks into the crease of his hip once Castiel does away with his underwear, red and leaking at the tip.

For all of Castiel’s patience, he wastes no time in getting his mouth on Dean. Dean groans with the feeling of Castiel’s lips on his cock, mouthing up the vein underneath with his hands pressing firm indentations into Dean’s hips, bruises imminent. And Dean can’t find it in himself to care, just continues to pant and grit out obscenities when Castiel licks and kisses continuously up and down his cock, afterwards lapping away the precome that drips from the slit.

He’s soaked by the time Castiel finally— _finally_ —takes Dean into his mouth, shallow at first, just to ease Dean into it. Inwardly, Dean is thankful—anything else and he might have come right there. “C’mon,” Dean breathes. Blindly, he reaches down to fist Castiel’s hair, his other hand gripping the sheets nearest him, the majority of the pile now pooled at Castiel’s back. He can’t tell which is hotter, Castiel’s mouth taking him in effortlessly or the fire continuing the blaze on; both leave him sweating and letting out harsh breaths, more so from the velvet smoothness of Castiel’s tongue and his lips.

 _God, those lips._ Dean looks up long enough to watch Castiel pull off his cock, a strand of precome still connected to his lower lip when he pauses to stroke him, barely staving off the fire burning through his veins. “You’re enjoying this,” Castiel muses, smug.

If he weren’t so preoccupied with Castiel sucking his cock down again, Dean would kick him. “Wanna—Wanna come,” he whines. This time, he chooses to card his fingers through Castiel’s hair, smoothing the errant strands down before rucking it up again. Castiel purrs around his cock, the vibration almost enough to set him off. Every touch sends sparks skittering through his veins, heat coiled tight in his abdomen, ready to burst—but only once Castiel lets him. “God, ‘m close,” he slurs, head thumping against the pillows.

He must be a sight to behold, legs spread wide while Castiel bobs between them, back arching and hips pumping a slow rhythm into the soft, wet heat of Castiel’s mouth. Probably flushed red down to his toes, hundreds of freckles standing against reddened skin, tacky with sweat. “Let me,” he hears Castiel mutter, barely audible in his consciousness. Dean nods regardless of whatever Castiel means and just spreads himself wider, only to feel Castiel pull off, just long enough to suck a finger into his mouth, coming away soaked.

 _Fuck_ —Dean’s stomach tightens in a combination of fear and lust, clenching further when Castiel resumes torturing his cock, at the same time stroking his slick finger between Dean’s cheeks, over the furl where he’s never dared touch himself despite his own desire. Castiel feeds his want and pushes in to the knuckle, and that’s what does Dean in—he comes with the feel of Castiel’s finger in him and lips wrapped tight around his cock, enveloped from every angle, made whole again.

He gasps in the aftermath, a hand still lost in Castiel’s hair when Castiel pulls off his cock, and through orgasm-hazed eyes, he watches Castiel swallow his release without hesitation. “Fuckin’ hot,” Dean manages, sucking in breath after breath; Castiel steals it away with kiss, his legs once again straddling Dean’s waist while he reaches into his boxers and jerks himself off. No shyness, no shame—Dean watches Castiel fist himself with quickening strokes, letting out stuttered moans, even louder when Dean strokes up his muscled thighs to pull Castiel’s underwear down, just far enough to see his cock.

He’s huge, thick and purple at the head, leaking profusely in his fist. Dean’s own cock twitches with renewed interest, still a while away from reaching full hardness again. Maybe later, when the power comes back on and he can enjoy this more, explore every fantasy he’s ever had, savor every touch, taste, sensation Castiel can provide him.

Hopefully, soon.

Castiel comes with a groan, head thrown back as his release paints a path up Dean’s chest, a fleck catching his chin. With every pulse, Dean whines for more, still absently stroking up Castiel’s legs while Castiel comes down, body shuddering under Dean’s hands. Beautiful, heady—Dean never wants to let him go. “Kiss me,” Dean begs, pawing at Castiel’s shoulders.

It’s probably pathetic, but Castiel kisses him anyway, something softer about it now, so much sweeter. Honeyed lips touch his own until they swell again, until Dean’s too sensitive to go on. To his dismay, he watches Castiel pull away and leave, his now naked body disappearing behind the bathroom door. He comes back with a wet washcloth and proceeds to wipe down both Dean and himself, afterwards tossing the article in the direction of the couch.

Speaking of. Dean glances over his shoulder to where Shadow’s still asleep, apparently undisturbed by the noise; barely, he manages to keep himself from laughing, knowing that that would be the thing to wake her up, not her owner being sucked off in front of a fireplace.

“You look good like this,” Castiel comments once they’re settled again, the covers pushed to the side for the time being. Maybe once the fever wears off, then Dean will think about pulling up the blankets. With steady hands, Castiel pulls Dean to his chest, laving small kisses over his nape, occasionally dipping to his shoulder. “I can count your freckles.”

Dean chuckles, eyes falling closed with the continued ministrations. Letting out a sigh, he murmurs, “Bet you’d like that.”

“I would,” Castiel answers, just the slightest bit pleased.

Whatever happens after that, Dean forgets, too lost in the soft press of Castiel’s mouth against his skin, slow touches that draw him to sleep in no time, now more comfortable than he’s ever been. Safe, secure, wrapped in the tight embrace of someone he could grow to love, if given the chance.

His heart aches with the thought. _If only_ , he thinks as he feels himself drift off.

-+-

“I killed my brother.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat.

It’s morning now, he notices, faint light bouncing off the snowbanks now piled high above the porch railing. The fire is nothing but a low smolder, gone out at some point between when he fell asleep and now, Castiel’s admission jerking him out of his slumber in record time.

Castiel lets out a warm breath against his nape, afterwards pressing his temple to the spot. His hands are cold underneath the blankets, shaking ever so slightly. “I didn’t… physically do it, but sometimes I feel like I did.”

Dean swallows, shifts enough to where he can roll onto his other side. Castiel doesn’t look at him exactly, hooded eyes staring at a particularly interesting spot on the bedsheets. “What happened?” Dean asks. He places his hand between them, not entirely surprised when Castiel takes it and holds on, threads their fingers together.

“…There was an accident,” Castiel starts. “My… I had just graduated high school, and he wanted to take me out to celebrate. I told him it didn’t matter, that I didn’t mind celebrating with the rest of our family, but he wouldn’t hear it. He wanted to do something special. Some restaurant in town, a club, I don’t know.”

He stops to squeeze Dean’s hand, probably the only thing holding him together; Dean clutches him back just as tight, knuckles probably turning white. “Car accident, was the official cause of death. Drunk driver ran through a red light and hit Michael’s sedan, caved the driver’s side in. He didn’t have airbags—didn’t really believe in them. He thought… He figured he was invincible, like the rest of my family.”

Another pause, followed by a sigh. “He was dead on arrival, but the nurses at the trauma center spent an hour trying to resuscitate me. It’s where I got these.” Dean glances down to the silvered marks dotting Castiel’s chest, definite rips and tears stretching across the entirety of his chest, down to his navel; aware of the intimacy, he leans in to kiss them anyway, pleased with the soft breath Castiel exhales with the attention. “The dashboard nearly killed me. I didn’t wake up for two weeks after, but by that time…”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Dean says in in silence, presses his forehead to Castiel’s. “It’s not your fault.”

“He left me as his only beneficiary.” _Oh_. That explains the house in the middle of nowhere, but nothing else. For the week he’s been there, Dean never would have thought Castiel had a sizable amount of cash based on how little he spent or the general condition of his home or truck, or the fact he apparently woodworks in his spare time. “It wasn’t much, but I didn’t want it regardless. It felt… tainted, like I had done something to deserve it.

“I just… I took it and ran, Dean.” Castiel curls in on himself; Dean keeps him stable, though, running his fingers through Castiel’s hair while Castiel tucks his head under Dean’s chin. “I couldn’t face the looks from my family, from my friends, like I was someone to be pitied or blamed. After all, I was in the car. It was my fault we left that evening.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dean asserts. Cautiously, he pulls back enough to lock eyes with Castiel, hand now pressed to his cheek. Castiel blinks at him with wet, hazy cobalt eyes. “Hell, it’s not your fault now. No one coulda… Shit like that doesn’t have a reason, Cas. It just happens, and there’s nothin’ you coulda done. But that don’t mean you did it. Look at me.” Castiel doesn’t, continues staring at the blanket. “Cas…”

“Your brother’s still alive,” Castiel murmurs, a pathetic rebuttal. Still, Dean’s heart stings. “You could’ve very well been in my brother’s place. I felt some… duty to you, to keep you alive. I prayed that you’d make it, that I wouldn’t have to watch another person die due to reasons beyond my control. But if something had happened…” He looks up to Dean, a stray tear falling into the crease of his nose. “What would your brother do without you?”

Dean doesn’t know—hasn’t really thought about it, not since the immediate threat of his own mortality had passed. But Sam already feels guilty for calling off the trip, Dean knows. If Dean somehow went missing, Sam would never forgive himself. Sam would blame himself for the rest of his life, always with the thought on his mind, ‘If only I had gone with him.’ It weighs heavy on his heart the longer he thinks about it, until he can’t swallow, throat thick.

“I don’t know,” Dean rasps. “I don’t… I don’t wanna think about it. Don’t…”

“Then you understand.” Castiel strokes his thumb beneath Dean’s eye, catching the stray tear that’s spilled over. “I’m not… This way, I’m atoning. I’m not burdening anyone else. I’m not reminding my mother of her lost son, I’m not watching my father drink himself to death. They may worry, but… I won’t remind them of what they’ve lost.”

As much as Dean doesn’t want to admit it, it makes sense. But that doesn’t stop him from blurting, “You don’t have to go back to them,” and immediately cringing at his word choice. Castiel doesn’t scorn him, though, just waits for him to speak. “I mean… You could leave here. I’m sure there’s other places you could live that aren’t bumfuck Virginia.”

Castiel chuckles under his breath, defeated. “I could,” he says, quiet, “but I don’t know where else to go.”

“Just…” Dean leans up, squinting in the new light that greets him, brighter with the few sun rays shining through the window panes. “…If you ever leave here, do you think we’ll see each other again?”

“…Of course,” Castiel says, turns his eyes away.

It’s a lie, but it’s the closest Dean has to comfort. They won’t see each other again; the minute Dean leaves that cabin, Castiel is going to forget him and continue living in his own personal exile, and Dean will live forever with the memories of a stranger’s kiss and the hands that saved his life, the evidence forever marked into his skin.

Dean swallows, wipes away the tears that threaten to spill before Castiel can see. “I’ll hold you to that,” he attempts to laugh, coming out fragile.

No part of him wants to lose this, the world he’s built in the few days he’s had since being carried in through the front door. But it’s inevitable—his family is waiting for him in Kansas, and he has to call Sam at some point to tell him he’s not dead. Just the thought of driving back home is enough to turn his stomach, eyes stinging behind closed lids.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, finally, and that’s all it takes for Dean’s self control to shatter. In a cabin lost in the snowy Appalachians, Dean loses himself in the arms of another man and clings to him without mercy, until the wind chimes drown out his sorrows, Castiel’s voice guiding him home.

-+-

Castiel drives him all the way back to Georgia a week later, the snow mostly melted by the time they make their way from Big Stone Gap to Lookout Mountain. Surprisingly, Dean’s truck bears no parking violations or boots; he counts it as a win and takes his belongings from Castiel’s back bench, Shadow jumping from Castiel’s seat and trotting her way to Dean’s battered Chevy to make herself at home in the passenger seat.

At least she’s happy; Dean can’t say the same about himself.

For a long while, both he and Castiel stand in silence in the parking lot, words utterly escaping him. What is he supposed to say? ‘I want you stay with you’? ‘Come with me’? ‘I love you’? He doesn’t know—doesn’t say any of them, his heart barely in it anymore. Castiel was his first, and definitely won’t be his last. But he’ll always be there, lingering in the back of Dean’s mind when Dean needs him the most. Memories of kisses and heated touches, kind words and hushed prayers, all visible in the snow at their feet and every time the wind blows through the pines.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he opts for instead, palming the back of his neck.

At his front, Castiel nods, the sunlight reflecting off the dark circles under his eyes, more pronounced now that Dean can see him outside of the clouds. He’s even more beautiful here, bathed in bright yellow, his eyes even deeper than Dean ever imagined. “I have a box at the post office,” Castiel offers, reaching into his pocket to pull out a folded sheet of paper. “I don’t check it often, but you could write me. I’d… like to hear from you again.”

His throat tightens with the suggestion, and before he can catch himself, he snatches the paper from Castiel’s hand, earning a zealous grin. “Minute I get home, I’ll do it,” Dean says, adamant. “You swear you’ll check?”

“For you, I will,” Castiel affirms, and for a split second, Dean almost believes it. “Goodbye, Dean.”

Castiel’s kiss tastes like mint toothpaste and the coffee they picked up in Duffield. Dean cups Castiel’s cheeks with his bare hands, Castiel’s hands resting softly on his hips, almost a promise. A lasting memory, one Dean will keep forever. “Later,” Dean whispers, barely there.

Castiel is still in the parking lot when he backs out of his spot and heads towards the exit, waving in the rearview, even more haunted than when Dean found him. Expectantly, Shadow looks at him from the passenger seat with her ears drooping, before eventually lowering herself fully to the bench, her head resting on Dean’s wounded thigh. She whines, almost mirroring his own sadness.

Petting between her ears feels wrong; no longer does it soothe the ache in his bones, fill the void in his heart that had been filled for a matter of days. Now, he’s alone on a stretch of road heading back home, with less than what he started with. “I know,” Dean tells Shadow, thumbing one of her ears. She whines again, sputtering; he can’t stop from doing the same. “I know.”

-+-

“Come,” Dean shouts at Shadow from across the park, a crumpled newspaper in hand and her leash in the other. He’d only let her go a minute ago, but in the interval, she hasn’t stopped barking at something near the tree line. Probably another couple on a bench or a duck—Dean doesn’t know. Doesn’t care, not as long as she stops _barking_. “Shadow, get _over_ here,” he calls again.

Still, she continues, more adamant than ever. Her yowls alert a murder of crows in the trees, startling them enough to fly off, a collection of black feathers falling through the trees. One lands on Dean’s shoulder when he leaves his bench to retrieve his— _stupid_ —dog, muttering under his breath along the way. “Shadow,” Dean scolds and leans down to hook her harness to the leash—only to look up at the bench adjacent to him, and its occupant.

His heart stills, rests. Blue eyes stare back at him in wonder, face haggard with age; a few more gray hairs are growing in behind his ears now, peppering the stubble growing along his jaw. “Cas,” Dean breathes, and immediately deflates. Two years— _two years_ , and Castiel is there, sitting on a bench in Lawrence, dressed in a heavy coat and well-worn flannel, and those same jeans he saw him in that first day in the cabin. It takes all of his self-control not to run over and kiss Castiel right then.

At least now, Shadow is quiet. “I guess you didn’t get my letter,” Castiel says, pushing himself off the bench; he meets Dean under the shade of a tree, sunlight peering through the branches in spots, decorating Castiel’s shoulders.

Admittedly, Dean hasn’t—mail hasn’t run this week, Christmas having slowed the post-holiday flow of mail to a trickle. Not that he’s had time to check, with how many hours he’s having to put in at the auto shop. “Guess it said you’re coming here?” Dean asks, still too shaken to accurately form a thought.

Thankfully, Castiel helps him along. “I left Virginia,” Castiel says in one breath, arms wrapped tight around himself. He’s shivering—from the cold or the experience, Dean doesn’t know. His heart glows with the information though, prouder now than he’s been since Sam started his junior year. “You wouldn’t happen to know a realtor here, would you?”

Dean practically beams, his hand white knuckling Shadow’s leash while she sits at Castiel’s foot, her tail sweeping through the dead grass beneath their feet. All at once, the hours, the months, the years separated mean nothing, nothing as long as he has Castiel here to mend what’s been torn. “I could probably find someone,” Dean says, giddy. “Where d’you wanna live?”

A flush spreads up his neck when Castiel leans in to kiss the corner of his lips, just the same as he remembers. “Somewhere close to this,” Castiel sighs. _Somewhere close to you_.

Dean nods, lets himself fall into the embrace Castiel offers. This— _This_ , he wouldn't change for the world. As long as he can have this, he can breathe again. Live without the nightmares, without the nagging ache in his chest.

This, he’ll never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the random hair to write something about cabins and wind chimes recently, and a week later this popped out. Thanks to [WingsforWinter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsforwinter) and [Liv](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RipUpTheEnding) for betaing, thanks for catching my billions of typos!
> 
> Also, I should have my DeanCas Tropefest entry coming out on September 2nd, which I still need to edit, and my DCBB is officially on the block for this year! (Cue me being nervous about claims for the rest of the week.)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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